"house made of dawn", n. scott momaday

[i should actually work on finishing this, but i remembered that i had just read this one passage and when i was trying and failing to sleep i thought of it]

“She thought of her body and could not understand that it was beautiful. She could think of nothing more vile and obscene than the raw flesh and blood of her body, the raveled veins and the gore upon her bones. And now the monstrous fetal form, the blue, blind, great-headed thing growing within and feeding upon her. From the time she was a child and first saw her own blood, how it brimmed in a cut on the back of her hand, she had conceived a fear and disgust of her body which nothing could make her forget. She did not fear death, only the body’s implication in it. And at odd moments she wished with all her heart to die by fire, fire of such intense heat that he body should dissolve in it all at once. There must be no popping of fat or any burning on of the bones. Above all she must give off no stench of death.”

when i am trying to sleep and there is nothing to distract me i become very aware of my body, of the structure of my bones and the varying texture of my skin. sometimes when i lie on my heart it seems to beat so powerfully it is too big for my body, i can actively feel the blood pounding in my fingertips, in my toes. i think about how i’m going to die, how intricate and fragile the body is. for a long time i would think about what it would be like to be crucified. mostly the bit with the nails in the hands/forearms. feeling the nerve between the bones, imagining the nail going through, how big it would have to be, how the rest of my arm would feel. lately it’s been arrows and bullets, striking me from the back and going through my ribcage, my lungs, how the air would wheeze, what would break and what would not, what would bleed and flood… or passing so easily through my skull, through the mess of bone and brains and blood and dreams and headaches. morbid, i suppose. but incarnation inevitably leads to morbidity. it’s written in every little almost unnoticeable ache.

does it seem strange to you that when we smile we are pulling back our skin to show our bones? our skeleton.

i understand the desire to dissolve, to evaporate absolutely and cleanly without leaving even footprints, going down in flames and up in smoke.

the rumors of your blood. is that a line from something?

should try sleeping now.

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